


Journal Entry #79: Decisions

by dukester_doodle



Category: BTDCOM, BTDCOM - Original AU, Original Work
Genre: BTDCOM - Freeform, Blue Journal Era, Gen, How Do I Tag, Original au, Short Story, accepting a deadass deal smh, also mimic be out here wildin, why is the commander a bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:47:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22387435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dukester_doodle/pseuds/dukester_doodle
Summary: "I was not surprised when I learned I was escorted there for naught but one thing: extortion.Done by none other than our ideal image of discipline and truth, the American government itself. "





	Journal Entry #79: Decisions

This wasn't what I expected today to end up as.

Michael, my dearest father, had called me on the landline that chilly morning, sounding vague and non-descript in our conversation. I tried to keep my eye on the book I was writing when what he said stunned me. He arrived by the front door an hour later. A simple father-son 'trip' he mumbled as he gestured to the car parked at the driveway. I had questioned him what the purpose of this 'trip' was; the man never answered. He drove me to a government building a few hours from the main city. Isolated and broken down looking. A great length of metal fences surrounded the area (which I noticed were electric fences as we drove further in) made the place look like an actual prison. It most probably was.

He guided me through the long, winding grey halls of the building. Not once stopping to face me even as I grumbled on with my protests. Now as I look back on it, I doubt Michael would have given me a choice on coming with or not.

Michael and I stopped before two doors, where this tall and lanky man stood waiting. This man, whose name I never learned, led me to a cold, dull room. Three large windows of one-sided glass surrounded me and one cement wall behind. An interrogation room. The only way in and out was a simple metal door, the classic bolt and lock. I'd say it was nearly trivial to have it. Whatever they wanted out of me; I was very aware at that time they already had that information. It was the other side of the government after all; it's darker and more sinister counterpart.

Hospitality was a far idea from the facility, choosing to handcuff my wrists for nearly four hours as I waited. It was for the safety of whoever else was in the building. I believe they were simply scared of me. They knew of my years of villainy when I was a youth and what I did during my time in college. The Oregon Bombing, a devastating event that led to the death of thousands and the destruction of a third of the city. It's been more than a decade since then. As I sat there, listening to the bothersome loud tick of the clock, I took the liberty to think. What could the government possibly want from a retired villain who had hidden files on previous criminals and other villains they had worked with?

I was not surprised when I learned I was escorted there for naught but one thing: extortion. Done by none other than our ideal image of discipline and truth, the American government itself.

A sudden slide of metal, a sharp click and the metal door swung open. Sitting for hours long whilst handcuffed didn't feel as tiring as it did once I saw him walk in. Or perhaps marched? Back rigid and straight, a distant feel to his aura. He was trying to appear sure of himself, trying to act brave. I thought of it as foolish and amusing. He was fairly built, a balding head and dark eyes hidden behind square glasses perched on his nose. I was ordered to address him by the title of ‘Commander’ if I was to respond. He greeted me with a gruff, 'Good afternoon, Mr. Callahan.'

Now, I wasn't sure at that time if I was supposed to feel insulted or to add it to my growing ego (and I must add has not grown since the last time my husband and I engaged in _certain_ activities). The ‘Commander’ didn’t even try to see me by my current self, Jeremiah Ward. He called me by the name I had when I was still a killer; still am of course but dulled by the sweet content of marriage. Of course, I wouldn't have replied, why would I? How would I even begin to continue a conversation with the very man employed to an organization I had tried to rid of?

As I was about to speak out my concern, he had spoken of...a deal. He laid it out simple: either I work for them, or my identity is exposed to the world. The identity I have tried a decade to fix, to manipulate and conform to the perfect image of a husband and book author I am today. All of that I would risk if I were to decline the offer. To accept would mean I’d return to my days as a villain, patrolling along the rooftops at the dead of night. Feeling the adrenaline spike through my veins, that ache of action and thrill finally leaving me be. I needed to decline. I couldn’t put my husband nor my adoptive father at the risk of harm or worse especially one brought by me. But there was that voice, a nag that slumbered in the corners of my mind, who wanted me to accept a version of myself I’ve denied.

He stared at me from across the table, hands folded and rested against the table's top when I suddenly rose from my seat. The chains hooked to the table rattled and my movement halted by the loops attached to its surface. I had hissed at the pain that circled my wrists. There was a numbness like one would feel if their skin was trapped in ice. The 'Commander' stood as I did, but he was quicker, jumpy like a spooked creature. An expression of fear glazed in his eyes. He didn't know what I was going to do, and at that time, I didn't know myself. I took a deep breath and I gave my answer loud, and clear.

I said yes.

**\- J**


End file.
